Moving with lightning speed, she tried to slam the door shut, but Cetro stuck his large boot between the door and its frame. He pushed against it from the outside and Olivia lost her balance.
She stumbled over and back, falling against the end table next to her couch. The candlestick lamp there started to fall forward, but Olivia grabbed it. Screaming like a banshee, she swung it back around toward her attacker.
Cetro threw his arm up to block it. Instead of the lamp hitting his head as she’d intended, its base slammed into his forearm.
It went flying back toward her kitchen, landing with a loud clanging sound. Cetro growled, baring his teeth like some sort of wild animal as he continued his advance.
My gun. I have to get to my gun.
Spinning away from him, Olivia began to run through her living room. She’d only made it a few steps when the full weight of his body slammed into her back.
They fell onto her coffee table, its glass top shattering the moment they hit. Olivia cried out, but then ignored the biting pain in her left arm as she scrambled to find a pointed piece of glass to use as a weapon.
Her fingers brushed over one almost immediately and she grabbed it. With as much strength as she could, Olivia flung her arm backward and jammed the large shard into the flesh of his upper arm. Then, she twisted.
The glass was cutting the insides of her fingers and palm, but she didn’t care. This man had already taken so much from her.I can’t let him take me again.
Cetro roared, his grip on her loosening just enough for her to wiggle out from beneath him. While he was busy pulling the glass from his arm, Olivia got to her feet and ran around the end of her couch.
She mentally kicked herself for not bringing the gun with her when she answered the door for Trevor earlier. She realized now, how incredibly stupid that decision had been.
If she made it out of this alive, she would never, ever keep her gun this far from the door again.
Gun...door...Mudroom!
Just then, Olivia remembered Pops’ shotgun. She’d put on a shelf by the mudroom door when she’d first moved in, and had completely forgotten about it until now.
In a split-second decision, she decided to try for the shotgun rather than her pistol in the bedroom. Olivia made it halfway around the back of the couch, and was between it and the open entryway to her kitchen when Cetro surprised her by jumping over the piece of furniture.
He looked like some sort of action movie hero. Too bad he was the villain.
Olivia screamed and jumped out of the way. He narrowly missed her, and she knew she needed to dosomethingto put some distance between them if she had any hopes of retrieving her gun in time.
Grabbing the first thing she could find, Olivia picked up one of the wooden chairs from her kitchen table and threw it at him.
Anticipating the move, Cetro caught two of its legs with both hands and threw the chair to the side, causing it to crash against the front door. It broke into several pieces on impact.
Olivia tried to turn away, but she wasn’t fast enough. Cetro’s fist slammed into her left temple and cheekbone, and she flew sideways, grunting when her right hip hit the countertop next to her stove.
Her hand knocked against her coffee mug holder and several of the porcelain cups fell from the wooden stand. Some landed on the white countertop, others shattering as they hit the kitchen floor.
Ignoring the spots flashing before her eyes and the throbbing pain from the cuts on her hand and arm, Olivia fought to regain control.
Still stunned from the blow, her right hand bumped clumsily against her wooden knife block. The blades went flying over the burners on her stove.
Scrambling quickly, Olivia picked up one of the knives—not an easy task to accomplish with the amount of slick blood coating her palm and fingers. With a painfully tight grip, she held onto that knife for dear life.
Squeezing its hilt with all she had, Olivia took a deep breath, determined to hit an artery this time. She braced herself for the move, but before she had the opportunity to swing the knife around, Cetro was behind her. His body trapping hers against the counter.
He wrapped an arm around her chest, pinning her left arm against her own body, and used his right hand to grab the one holding the knife.
Yanking it back on her forearm, he slammed her wrist down onto the counter’s edge. Olivia cried out, but somehow managed to keep hold of the knife.
It was her only defense. If she lost it, she was dead.
Cetro repeated the move. Over and over—each hit harder than the one before it—until she heard the sickening snap of her bones. Olivia screamed, nearly blinded by the stabbing pain.
The broken bones made it impossible for Olivia to keep hold of the knife’s hilt. It bounced off the counter and fell to the floor with a clang, her hopes of surviving plummeting right along with it.
